“Does this Raoul have a last name?”
He swiped away beads of sweat forming on his face. “Raoul Hice. He flies under the radar. He’s also an ex-con, so be careful how you approach him.”
After Davie left the rental agency, she sat in the car to consider her options. If Raoul Hice had information that would identify Mushroom Ears, she had to interview him. Vaughn could go with her, but that meant involving him in a case that was no longer assigned to Pacific Homicide, which would put him in the awkward position of saying no.
Technically she should call Jon Striker and tell him what she’d discovered. She wondered how annoyed he’d be if she interviewed Raoul Hice without consulting him. Pretty annoyed, she guessed. Plus, it was risky to go alone. And it was even riskier to continue working the case without including Striker. To avoid talking to him, she emailed the information about Raoul Hice and headed home.
52
She got as far as Sepulveda and Pico before her phone rang. A glance at the display panel told her it was an incoming call from Striker. If she didn’t answer, he’d just call back so she pressed accept.
“Just got your email,” he said. “Question—why are you working this case by yourself?”
“My partner developed a lead while we were out of town. I followed up. Now I’ve turned it over to you. You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t good information.” He paused before continuing. “Look, maybe I was too abrupt with you at the airport. If so, I’m sorry. But we’re on this case together now, and it’s going to be difficult if we don’t communicate.”
If the conversation had taken place after a good night’s sleep, she wouldn’t have felt so defensive. But she was suffering the effects of jetlag and the loss of the familiar back-and-forth she had with her partner. Vaughn would never have treated her in such a paternal way. She didn’t want to talk to Striker, much less work with him. The only thing that pushed her forward was the commitment she’d made when she took this job—to stand in the shoes of the victims, protecting their interests against all others. That meant reining in any personal feelings that could jeopardize the case.
“Got it,” she said.
There was a long pause before he responded. “I’ll be at Pacific in fifteen minutes. We’ll talk when I get there.”
The line went dead.
Striker’s tone sounded frustrated, maybe even angry, and it was clear the comment wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order. She had no choice but to return to the station. To do otherwise would confirm the department’s position that cops engaged in personal relationships shouldn’t work together.
When Davie arrived at her desk, the Long Beach patrol officer and the J-Car officer were gone, but the night detective was still reading through reports. She typed her rental agency interviews on an official computer form. The notes and the Salinas’s photo disc would go to Striker when he arrived.
A few minutes later Davie heard footsteps and glanced up to see Striker standing by the door of the squad room. His expression was pinched as he beckoned her to join him in the hallway. She grabbed her notes and the photos and walked toward the door, expecting him to jab his finger in her face and make some bullshit accusation about her lack of team spirit. Instead, he seemed tired and unhappy.
His voice was flat. “Is there someplace we can talk in private?”
“Outside in the parking lot or upstairs in the Roll Call room. Take your pick.”
Striker nodded toward the stairs. As soon as they entered the empty room he pulled two chairs toward a back corner and took a seat. Davie remained standing. His forearms rested on his thighs, his head tilted upward, staring directly at her with those startling blue eyes of his. “Are we okay?” he asked.
This was not the time for rehashing hurt feelings, so she paused a moment to shoehorn all the memories from the previous night into a small compartment of her brain and lock the door. Maybe she’d sort it all out in the future—or maybe not.
“Sure,” she said with as much nonchalance as she could muster. “We’re fine.”
Striker straightened his spine and nodded. “Good. Before I left the office I cross-referenced the information you had on Raoul Hice and found an address in South Gate. He has an arrest record that goes back to his teens, including a conviction for Grand Theft Auto. According to our records, he’s on parole. I think we should drive over and see what he has to say.”
“Now?” Davie asked. “It’s almost seven thirty.”
“You have something better to do?”
As a condition of his parole, Hice’s property could be searched any time of the day or night without a warrant as long as law enforcement had a suspicion he was engaged in criminal conduct. His dodgy car rental business was cause enough. With his conviction for auto theft, it was possible at least some of the vehicles in his fleet were stolen.
They took Striker’s car to South Gate, a city with its own police department and one of the highest crime rates in the country. It would be dangerous enough for the two of them to go there. Going alone would have been reckless.
The address led them down a narrow street to a building surrounded by a tall metal fence topped with spearlike points. The area was tangled with power and telephone lines strung from wooden poles. A faded sign over the door read body shop • free rental car • insurance work.
As Davie got out of the passenger door she felt wary and boxed in by the stucco buildings lining both sides of the street, all with barred windows and graffiti-covered walls. An older Chevy Impala with tinted windows drove past, loud music blasting from an open window. Her hand covered her weapon as the car slowed a moment, then accelerated, disappearing around the corner.
As they reached the gate, Davie held her flashlight like a javelin, ready to use it as a weapon. The beam of light revealed a padlock hanging unsecured from a metal loop. Before entering, Striker whistled to see if that brought any dogs, but no snarling Dobermans or Rottweilers answered his call.
The gate creaked as Striker pushed it open. Several cars were parked on the property, all older models. At the side of the building was a white van similar to the one Davie had seen speeding away from Robert Montaine’s storage facility. There were thousands of similar vehicles in L.A., but seeing this one on this particular lot spiked Davie’s pulse. Through the dim light from a security spotlight on a neighboring building, she could make out two bays in the garage. One side was vacant. On the other side was a Prius sitting atop an automotive lift raised to the ceiling.
The place looked quiet except for a light beaming from the office window. Davie kept her flashlight on as they made their way across the uneven concrete, scanning the area for signs of movement. She peeked through the grimy glass and saw a man in his mid-thirties sitting at a desk, talking on his cell. He had olive skin and dark brown hair greased back, a flat nose, and full lips that any Hollywood starlet would envy. Sparse facial hair lined his jaw and upper lip and bushy eyebrows fell onto his lids, creating a hooded look.
Striker tapped on the door and then turned the knob. The intrusion startled the man. He jumped out of the chair and slipped the phone into his pants pocket. “Do I know you?”
“LAPD,” Davie said, holding up her badge. “Are you Raoul Hice?”
He wiped his hands down the sides of his pants and sprinted over to them with a grin and an outstretched hand. “Come in, Detectives. Welcome. Are you collecting for the policeman’s ball? I gave last year. Glad to help out again.”
Hice knew they were detectives because she and Striker weren’t in uniform. Plus, his past run-ins with law enforcement were numerous enough for him to figure it out even without seeing the word detective spelled out on her badge. She ignored his outstretched hand. Instead, she slipped the flashlight into the loop of her belt, surprised to see that Hice’s eyes were blue. “The LAPD doesn’t have a policeman’s ball. That’s a scam.”
Strik
er’s voice was low but steely. “We understand you run a car rental hustle out of this shop.”
Hice flashed a look of fake surprise. “Here? No way. You heard wrong.”
“Lots of cars on the lot,” Striker said, glancing around. “None of them appear to need bodywork.”
Hice’s demeanor was cool, his tone affable. Davie had interviewed a lot of witnesses, from cooperative to hostile. Hice had the confidence and easy patter of a conman.
“Most of them are in for minor repairs. The rest are done. Just waiting for the owners to pick them up.”
She took out her phone. “So if I contact the registered owners, they’ll back up your story, right?”
He shifted his weight from foot to foot as if his cool was wearing thin. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”
“Good to know.” She turned toward the door. “Be right back, partner. I’ll run the plates.”
“We know you’re on parole, Mr. Hice,” Striker said. “We don’t need a warrant to tear this place apart looking for contraband. I’m sure the South Gate PD would back us up.”
“Okay, okay, stop. Just so you know, what I’m doing isn’t illegal. If people with cars need extra cash, I match them with customers who have a need. Everybody wins.”
“That’s not what you advertise. Your sign says free rental cars.” Davie held up the photo of Mushroom Ears standing by the Toyota. “Has this man used one of your vehicles?”
Hice glanced at the year-old date stamp and laughed. “A year ago? Who do you think I am, Hertz? I don’t keep records that far back.”
“We think he may have contacted you recently,” she said. “He uses various names, including Miles Standish and John Booth.”
Hice squinted at the image. “You’re kidding me. This picture is crap. I can’t even tell what he looks like.”
“Look again,” Davie said.
He returned his focus to the photo and frowned. “What did this guy do anyway?”
“Maybe nothing,” Striker said. “We just want to talk to him. Has he ever rented a car from you?”
Hice’s eyes darted from Davie to Striker. “Am I in trouble over this?”
“That’s between you and your conscience.” Davie tapped the photo with her finger. “We just want to know this man’s name.”
Hice sat on the edge of his desk, rubbing the back of his neck. “He called almost a week ago, looking for a rental. Said an associate of mine referred him. I only saw him once but I remember those weird ears. Don’t know how the dude can hear out of them.”
Davie couldn’t hide her impatience. “His name?”
“Andrew Jackson.”
She gave Striker a side glance and rolled her eyes. “You have an address for Mr. Jackson?”
“I didn’t ask for one. He didn’t want a paper trail.”
“What happens if he wrecks the car?”
“The first time I rented to him, he paid in person and in cash. I charged him for the rental, a security deposit, plus he wanted to pay a retainer for the next car. After that, we had an arrangement. I drop off a new car at the address he gives me and I pick up the old one. It’s never the same place. The money for the next rental is in the glove compartment, and there’s always a nice tip for the extra service.”
Striker picked up an invoice from Hice’s desk and looked it over. “What happens if Andrew Jackson doesn’t bring the car back?”
“The junkers I give him aren’t worth much. If he doesn’t bring it back, I still have the retainer. I reimburse the owner more than the car is worth. Everybody’s happy. But that hasn’t happened.”
“I guess money is no object with this guy,” Striker said, returning the invoice to the desk. “When was the last time he used one of your cars?”
“I picked up an SUV this morning and dropped off a Honda.”
“Where?”
“Some hooker motel in Palms called the Beach Bum.”
“Where’s the SUV?” she said.
He hesitated then pointed to a Nissan parked along the side of the fence. Davie walked over and tried the door. It was locked. “It has a navigation system. Mind if I check it out?”
Raoul ran his hand through his greasy hair. “Yeah, okay.”
Striker followed him into the office and returned with Hice and the keys to the Nissan. Davie started the engine to activate the navigation system but was disappointed to find that all past addresses had been wiped clean.
She pointed to the white van. “Did he ever rent that?”
“A few days ago, but only for a couple of hours.”
Davie thought back to all the times she’d sensed somebody watching her—behind the garbage bin at Mar Vista Gardens, the Nissan hanging back on the freeway, and the white van at the storage unit. Mushroom Ears was following her, and probably had been for some time. She wondered what would have happened at the storage unit if she hadn’t seen his shadow and called out.
Striker noticed her silence and filled the void with another question. “Did Mr. Jackson say when he’d need another car?”
“He prefers to mix things up. He’ll call me when he’s ready.”
“We need the make, model, and license plate number of the vehicle he has now.”
Hice told them it was a 2005 Honda Civic. Davie jotted down the license plate number while Striker handed him a business card.
“Do us a favor,” he said. “Don’t tell Mr. Jackson we’re looking for him. And if he calls, let me know.”
“Sure. No problem.”
As they walked back to the car, Davie turned toward Striker. “You think he’s on the phone right now warning old Andy that we’re on his trail?”
“Bet on it.”
53
The neighborhood of Palms was in Pacific’s jurisdiction. Since she’d been assigned to the division, Davie had driven by the Beach Bum Motel many times. On the way there, she told Striker about the van and her belief that Mushroom Ears had been following her. He sat silently for a moment and then said, “Okay.” She was glad he hadn’t overreacted, but at a minimum a mild expletive would have been appreciated.
The Beach Bum was a two-story rectangular building located midblock with a strip of parking slots straddling both sides of a driveway. She assumed the yellow paint had once been cheery, but it had faded into the ashen hue of a jaundice victim. At one time, the motel had been a place for families seeking a budget vacation close to the beach, but over the years it had become party central for hookers and junkies, the perfect place to cook heroin without repercussions if your cheap lighter burned a hole in the carpet.
It was dark and the parking lot was almost full. Striker pulled the car into one of the few remaining spaces close to the office. “Do we have a plan?”
“Ask uncomfortable questions,” she said. “Isn’t that what we do best?”
Striker gave her a knowing glance before shouldering open the car door and heading toward the office. Through the glass door, Davie saw a male wearing a thin white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had dark hair, small features, and skin the color of raw umber, a shade she remembered from her childhood box of crayons. If she had to guess his nationality, she’d say Pakistani.
Contrary to Raoul Hice, the man didn’t seem a bit startled when they walked in. He’d probably been watching them since they rolled into the lot. Considering the motel’s clientele, hyper-vigilance seemed an important bullet point on any employee’s resume.
Davie flashed her ID. “We’re looking for information about one of your guests.” She placed the photo of Mushroom Ears on the counter. “He was last seen driving a 2005 Honda Civic.”
Striker stepped up to the desk. “He may have been using the name Andrew Jackson.”
The desk clerk studied the snapshot and handed it back to Davie. “Mr. Jackson checked out this morning.”
“How did he pay?”
“Cash. He claimed he’d lost his credit card. I told him I needed a security deposit in case he damaged the room. He gave me a thousand dollars. Good thing, too. After he checked out I found a hole in the wall. I know he did it because he didn’t ask for his deposit back.”
“Did he give an address?”
The man pulled out an old-fashioned ledger and slid his finger down the columns. Given their lack of technology, Davie guessed the motel didn’t want to keep too close tabs on the clientele. When the desk clerk found the entry for A. Jackson, he rotated the book so Davie and Striker could see. He had used a familiar address—the LAPD’s Police Administration Building in downtown L.A.
Mushroom Ears was turning out to be a real comedian.
“We want to look in his room if that’s okay,” said Striker.
The clerk shrugged and handed him a key from a pegboard on the back wall. “Ground floor. Last unit. But you’re not going to find anything. I cleaned it already.”
The hinges of the room’s frail wooden door creaked open and the strong odor of disinfectant invaded Davie’s nose. “Too bad the department doesn’t issue gas masks.”
Striker reached into his pocket for a tube of menthol rub similar to the one Vaughn always carried. She smeared a dab under her nose and handed it back as she stepped inside the room. The damage to the wall was more a dent than a hole but could have been made by a fist. It appeared Mushroom Ears had anger-management issues. She searched the floor behind the cabinet and saw an accumulation of dust and at least one used tissue—so much for the manager’s cleaning ability. It was dangerous to touch anything you couldn’t see, especially in a room used by junkies. A used syringe might be concealed under the tissue.
She could hear Striker in the bathroom opening the top of the toilet tank, so she put on latex gloves and used a motel emergency placard to herd the debris out into the open. She probed the tissue with the card and detected an odor that was familiar and unsurprising, given that the motel was hooker haven. She also found a piece of thin rounded plastic that could have once been a protective cover surrounding a cell phone.
The Second Goodbye Page 24